


There Are Worse Robins

by ShiverAndTwitch



Category: DCU
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gen, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Kidnapping, Lazarus Pit, Other, Pit Madness, Stephanie Brown is Spoiler, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake is Robin, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2020-03-08 10:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18893074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiverAndTwitch/pseuds/ShiverAndTwitch
Summary: Robin is up late when he receives a visitor at the Tower. It ends badly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-canon Timeline  
> *This is a completely botched timeline with events taking place at different times, being altered or not happening at all*
> 
> Tim is about 15  
> Jason is about 17

_Pot meet kettle_.

If Tim hadn’t been so close to crying at the time he might have laughed at the look on Bruce’s face. Ninety-nine percent pure BatglareTM and one percent ridiculously, visibly affronted. In his defense, Tim was really upset when he said that, and Bruce had just told him that he needed to take a break from being Robin, that he should take time to mourn.

 _Batman had told him to take a break_.

It was hysterical. Still is.

Batman and break were words that didn’t go together in a sentence. Tim hadn’t even been sure that the word was part of Bruce’s vocabulary and he almost told him that, almost called Bruce out on the death of his own parents. Instead, he’d settled for calling Bruce a pot, an awkward minute of silence and mutual glaring before he walked out and called Conner to pick him up.

Then he cried on Conner for an hour -who despite not knowing why he was crying still managed to comfort him- and spent the rest of the day lurking around the Tower. Pot meet kettle indeed.

Now everyone’s asleep, and Tim wishes he could join them. Being a kettle sucks, especially when you something to prove to a pot. So no, Tim isn’t going to take a break, he’s going to be better.

If he had been good enough, he could’ve saved his mother, his father wouldn’t be in a coma and he wouldn’t soon be appearing in the papers as Bruce Wayne’s newest ward. The problem is he isn’t good enough and the solution isn’t taking a break.

The solution is training and self-discipline. He is no use to anyone if he can’t control himself and his reactions. Tim had broken down when he heard about his parents… he shouldn’t have. Not there, not then, and not in front of Batman. Tim worked too hard for Bruce to accept him as Robin, he isn’t going to lose that over grief. Not when it had already cost him his mother. Her death is not in vain. Not as long as Tim lives and fights.

Tim cracks his knuckles and eyes the punching bag in front of him. A living, thinking opponent would be better, but he doesn’t want any of the other Titans to see him like this. They need him to be strong, to be a leader, logical mind over emotional mind. And he will be tomorrow, the pain and sadness are sharp because they’re recent and new, tomorrow everything will be duller, more… gone.

Janet Drake would have hated being mourned anyway.

The punching bag swings back, and Tim lets it sway slowly to a stop then sits on the floor and buries his head in his hands. He _won’t_ mourn her. Janet Drake wasn’t the type to like being forgotten but if she knew he’s wasting time and moping around over her death she’d be rolling in her grave.

Tim considers the treadmills across the room. He’ll probably go insane if he gets on one of those right now. His thoughts are not a safe place to be, he needs something to occupy his mind.

So, he finds himself wincing against the bright screen of the computer. Tim closes a game that had been left on pause and opens the folder of cases that he’d been looking into in the city. Side projects for him to work on when he stays over at the Tower. He clicks on the first one when a notification pops up in front of the document and declares in bold red writing.

**Security Warning.**

Tim taps on it and the views from the surveillance system take over the screen. Half of the cameras are offline, and more are going down by the second. One by one until only blank screens or static remain. Alright, not good.

Another notification in the bottom corner of the screen counts down until an automatic alarm will go off. Tim clicks it and shuts it down, no need to wake everyone up over what was most likely caused by an old camera. They’d been installed before Tim had joined the team and desperately needed to be replaced. Something he meant to do a while ago and never got around to.

He opens the recordings from the past two minutes and runs them until the first camera went offline. Fixing it should get the system running until he installs a better one. He runs the recording another time then again in slow motion. Nothing weird, but that means nothing. There are so many blind spots. Tim closes his case file and turns off the computer. He hopes it’s something weird. He could use weird right now.

Tim climbs out of the chair and heads towards the stairwell. The first camera to shut down is in a hallway on the floor below him. No lights are shining on the camera at the top of the stairs as Tim walks past it, nor on the camera at the bottom. The hallway is silent, every few meters a dark camera hangs high on the wall.

Offline. Offline. Offline. Offline. Connecting all the cameras together, a great, easy concept. In practice.… _bad idea,_ and now the Tower has a worse surveillance system than your average mall. They’re set up like Christmas lights, one faulty bulb and nothing works right. _Offline_. Offline. Offline. Off… scratch that. _Missing_.

The recordings hadn’t shown this.

Tim wants to pull his hair out or celebrate a good distraction while pulling his hair out. Gone, the metal that once held it in place twisted. Someone took the security camera. _Just what the doctor ordered. Something weird._ It couldn’t have been an electrical issue or faulty installation or a loose wire, no someone had to steal the entire camera.

Wires dangle from where the camera _should_ have been. Torn and dangerously live, Tim can almost feel them buzzing through his gauntlet. Somebody is going to touch these and get the shock of their life. He makes a mental note to cap them off after he finds and deals with whoever stole the camera.

“Looking for something.” _Speak of the devil_. Tim doesn’t jump. He must have flinched though because he almost doesn’t catch the camera before it hit his face. A camera thrown by a man wearing a bright red helmet. How had he missed that?

“Thanks.” Tim blinks and eyes the guy. Brown leather jacket over an armored suit that is suspiciously familiar and… pants. Is he wearing pants over his suit? It is a full-body suit, isn’t it? Tim has so many questions, possibly starting with what looked like a red bat on the front of his suit. Or why he had to ruin a bunch of perfectly good security cameras.

The man circles around him and Tim moves to keep him in sight. “Your security is shit.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I bet you are.”

“How’d you get in here?” Tim asks as he drops the camera onto the floor and kicks it farther away. He takes his staff out of his belt.

“I have clearance.” That is unexpected if true and probably a lie. Scratch the probably, it is a lie. Tim would have been informed if a visitor was expected tonight, that and the fact that the guy took out the security. Yeah, that gives him away.

“Oh.” Tim doesn’t call him out on it. He has a feeling that a good many people will be disappointed that he went along with the game, but Tim needs a distraction today and punching bags don’t talk back. “Are you a new recruit?”

“Do I look like a new recruit?” _No, not at all_.

Tim presses the switch on the little metal cylinder that will be his staff. Drop. _Snap_. Catch. Always drop, the scars on his palms attest to that. Back from his impromptu training with Lady Shiva, she’d let him figure that out for himself. Not that it could cut him through his gauntlets, yet the training remained. He could still remember the look on her face when he chose the staff like it was yesterday. She’d been hoping he’d chose something a bit deadlier. How differently would things have turned out if he had? Tim spins it easily as if he isn’t thrumming for a fight. “Would you be offended if I said yes?”

“No, but that’d make you even stupider than you look.”

“Ouch.”

The man matches his posture and pulls a knife from his belt. “Red Hood.”

“Robin.” Tim almost misses the fist -luckily not a knife- coming for his face. Almost. Reckless. Sloppy. Tim dances on his feet, dodging, and maybe letting attacks get _a bit_ too close. A knife passes on inch from his face. When this gets back to Bruce, Tim is going to be dragged back to Gotham and forced on that break.

His staff sails harmlessly over the Red Hood’s head. This time the fist doesn’t miss. Tim stumbles back and winces as the room spun. The Red Hood is fast, probably a match for Bruce or Dick. He shakes his head and brings his arm up to block another blow.

It doesn’t help. When the guy hits, he hits hard and solid. The impact makes Tim’s arms throb.

A boot to the stomach sends him back into the wall and Tim narrowly gets his staff up in time to keep a blade from going through his throat. Instead, it scrapes down along the metal and cuts a thin line across his neck. The Red Hood presses his weight against the staff and the knife digs deeper. “Not going to try calling for backup?”

“I don’t need it.” Tim might be outmatched. Fighting the Red Hood doesn’t feel like fighting someone on Batman’s level. It feels like fighting Batman, a murderous Batman. The slight resemblances in their styles prickle the back of Tim’s mind. It was uncanny and alarming. Tim can’t beat Batman.

What has he gotten himself into now?

He can feel the tip of the knife cutting into his skin with every word. The Red Hood’s weight shifts and Tim can’t look down without risking driving the blade deeper, but he _knows_ and refuses to let himself be gutted. He grabs the second knife, twists it away from his stomach and drops to the ground as his hold on his staff gives out. His ear stings where a blade nicked it.

_Ouch._

The Red Hood’s knee cracks against his nose before Tim can roll away. He is _definitely_ wearing pants over body armor, and if Tim’s face didn’t throb with every beat of his heart -which is going wild- he’d judge a hell of a lot more.

Sadly, Tim doesn’t have the right to judge not when he could call off all the mistakes he’d made today off the top of his head.

One. Getting over-emotional with Bruce.

Two. Storming out.

Three. Shutting off the alarm.

Four. Deciding to deal with the Red Hood alone.

Five. Getting kneed in the face by the Red Hood.

_Six. Getting kneed in the face again. He really needed to move._

_He_ should throw the fight just so he doesn’t have to write a report on this.

Then again, he might not need to with the way it’s going.

He twists the knife out of the Red Hood’s grip and all but stumbles away from the wall and back to his feet. Tim hurls the knife down the hall, passes his staff to his left hand and wipes his mouth with his right then squares off again. “That the best you got, Hood.”

“Hood?” The Red Hood cleans his remaining knife on the sleeve of his jacket before pointing it at him. “I kind of like it. _Robin and Hood_.”

There are an infinite number of ways Tim can respond to that, but he doesn’t feel like joking. Anymore.

So, Tim responds with his staff instead. It connects with hard body armor; the Red Hood looks unfazed and Tim really hadn’t expected anything else. His staff doesn’t carry enough weight to break through that much Kevlar, all he’s doing is giving the Red Hood a few minor bruises. Tim needs to find a chink. He considers the parts of the armor that aren’t covered by the jacket or pants. And… _smart._

Joints are major weak points in armor. They can’t be too heavily covered without restricting movement, there _are_ ways around that but both the Red Hood’s arms and knees are covered. Tim isn’t Superman, it’s down to pure guesswork. He can only go make guesses and hope for the best possible outcome.

And best being that he breaks the Red Hood’s elbow.

And maybe his knee too.

Tim doesn’t get the best possible outcome. Or the worst. He does get rid of the Red Hood’s knife though.

It lies on the floor in-between them.

Tim opens his mouth to say something smart. Then closes it. The Red Hood snarls and barrels towards him. Tim raises his staff to parry and it’s ripped from his grip.

The hallway tips and Tim’s head hits the floor. One of the Red Hood’s knees lands on his abdomen and Tim wheezes harshly. A hand holds down one of his arms while another is on his face. Tim grabs at it. Fingers tug at the edge of his mask. Stop.

His skin burns where the domino is ripped off and Tim’s momentarily thankful that the cameras are off. _Momentarily_. When it passes, he feels naked. He almost spent as much time with the mask than he did without it. How long had it been since he’d been in front of an enemy without his mask? How long since someone had ripped it off? Tim wants to curl up and hide his face, instead, he forces his knees between him and the Red Hood and pushes. Not even a budge. Useless.

He takes a deep breath and -it’s fine. It’s fine. He doesn’t know you. It’s fine- considers his options. Unsurprisingly, not many. Maybe he can—

“ _That the best you got Tim_.”

Tim’s mind blanks and his body acts on instinct. He grabs the thing nearest him. The broken camera. And smashes it against the Red Hood’s helmet. Twice. The Red Hood reels back and Tim kicks him off. A long crack runs down the side of the helmet and the metal is dented inward.

“ _Son of a—”_

The camera is nothing but a handful of broken pieces and bent metal in his grip, Tim lets it clatter to the ground and looks around for his staff.

There.                    

The Red Hood stands over it and Tim falters.

He snatches the knife off the floor near him as a substitute. Better than nothing. And gets back to his feet.

In front of him, the Red Hood mutters a string of curses and reaches around to the back of his helmet. It makes a small hiss and a piece pops up. Tim wants to attack right then and there while he’s distracted. Wants to end it before he loses -he’s going to lose _-_ but not nearly as much as he’s curious about who or what’s under the helmet.

The Red Hood pulls it off and discards it. And Tim forgets how to breathe.

“Fucking bitch move, Replacement. That’s the fifth helmet this week.”

There’s a line of blood running down beside his ear from where the metal of the helmet had caved in and a malicious sneer on his face. Tim wants to put down the knife, he can’t. Not yet. The ‘J’ carved into his cheek is such a faint silver that it’s almost invisible. He can’t.

Tim grips the knife tight enough that his fingers hurt and shake. His staff is picked up and pointed at him. “What’s wrong Timmy. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He. Can’t. “Wait. I guess you have.

“You know, with all the hype going around I was expecting something _better_. Or at least something. I mean fuck, the standards must’ve really gone to shit since I died. Just how desperate was the old man? What’d he do? Go down to the nearest elementary school, ask for boys with black hair and blue eyes and take the first volunteer. Fuck, what are you? Ten? Twelve?

“I could have killed you a dozen times already. I gotta ask. How are you _better?_ What makes you so good? I’ve watched you for weeks. The only reason you’re alive is that no one's fucking bothered to kill you. What do you have that I don’t?

_“…_

“Come on, _Robin_. What’s wrong? Got nothing to say?”

“ _Jason?_ ”

It could be Clayface. That wouldn’t be a first. It isn’t. And Tim can’t hold the knife anymore. He lets it fall out of his hand. He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t. His mind just isn’t working. It can’t be anyone else. “Jason.”

Jason’s face twists in a way that makes the hair on Tim’s arms stand on end. Or maybe it’s the eyes. An unnatural green. Violent and bright the likes of which Tim has seen before and doesn’t like. It’s wrong and please don’t let it be what he thinks it is. Jason moves towards him and Tim instinctively takes a step back.

“You know I almost thought you wouldn’t show. With the thing with your parents and all. All that planning going to waste, but what do you know. _Here you are._ ” Jason keeps coming and Tim forces himself to stay still. Don’t run. _Run._ Don’t run.

Jason had been Robin and that means…

Means Tim isn’t in danger?

That doesn’t do anything to calm his nerves. Jason’s angry, _enraged_ , has tried to gut him, and Tim has never been more confused. If he hadn’t just gotten the shit beaten out of him, he might think that this was all one big nightmare. He’ll wake up and his parents will just be away on a trip and Jason will still be… well… that situation and the fallout is its own personal hellscape that Tim tries his best to manage. One that kept evolving and Tim wonders if Bruce would answer if he tries the coms right now. _If_ they aren’t being blocked. _If_ the range even reaches that far because he could use the help. Bruce would know what to do.

Tim isn’t Bruce, and because he isn’t going to shake his unease until he does, Tim asks, “what planning?”

“It took a lot of work to make this meeting possible, Replacement. You almost fucked it over by coming early. You know how hard it is to take down a Kryptonian clone on the fly like that. Don’t get me started on the other metas you got running around. Real pain in the ass.”

 “What did you do to Kon?” Alright, Tim wants the knife back. Not to stab Jason with, just to have something he can hold onto or between them. Jason is officially stepping back into the danger category.

“Nothing fatal. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“Alright, you’ve got your meeting. What are you doing here?”

“Ouch, that’s not a very warm welcome.” Well, you don’t make a very warm guest _._ Tim nearly cringes at how close Jason sounds, almost standing right in front of him. Run. _Don’t run_. Running is permission to be chased. A weird thought, but it feels fitting right now. “What is this, Jason?”

Jason stops and seems to consider it. Tim gets the inkling in his head that he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Or that he isn’t sure. Tim reaches out -he had to do something- and Jason flinches away from him. His entire body tensed, and Tim can tell by the look in his eye that he made up his mind.

“What needs to be done _._ ”

Tim ducks under _his_ staff. _Run_. This time he listens. A hand closes around his cape and pulls him back. Tim twists and jabs Jason in the nose. His cape goes slack and Tim sprints farther down the hall. He needs distance, the more the better.

The last-ditch ‘R’ shuriken on the chest of his costume rips off easily and he tries the comms. Silence. He can’t go get help. There’s no telling what conditions the Titans are in. He can’t risk their lives in what’s obviously Bat business. If they are alive. Something is wrong with Jason, beyond or maybe part of the whole back from the dead thing he has going on and Tim can’t be one hundred percent certain that he can trust his ‘ _nothing fatal_.’

He gingerly touches his neck. Whatever clotting had started, Jason tore apart when he pulled on his cape and the material around his neck is sticky with congealing blood. He needs to bandage that.

Behind him, Jason’s footsteps approach, he’s running. Tim pretends to worry at his wound until Jason’s nearly on top of him before dodging out of the way. Tim turns on his heel and throws himself at Jason’s back and lets the momentum carry them to the ground. He twists Jason’s arm behind his back, pressing down with all his weight. “You need help.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Jason growls, “and besides I don’t think I’m the one that needs help.”

Tim misses his staff; it lies tightly pinned under them and if Tim didn’t know that having it there is just as uncomfortable for Jason as it is for him then he would feel worse. As it is, holding a little shuriken against the back of Jason’s neck feels like nothing compared to his staff. What is he even going to do with it this close? Not like he can return Jason’s favor. He can’t hurt him. Not like this. “You’re down, Jason. Give up.” Stay down. Please.

Jason shifts under him. Tim suddenly wishes he weighed a hundred pounds more. “You don’t have it in you to keep me down, Replacement.” Oh no. He stands and Tim tumbles off his back. Jason grabs him by the collar before he can move away and throws him down onto the ground, his boot follows Tim and crushes his wrist against the floor. “What was Bruce thinking, sending you out on the streets like this?”

His staff swings down and Tim grabs it. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“You couldn’t even if you tried.” Jason gives the staff a tug and when Tim holds on, he leans more pressure on Tim’s wrist and brings his foot down on his stomach. Tim cries out and curls onto his side but tightens his grip on the staff. Jason kicks him again then rips it from his grasp.

Tim lies panting on the ground with his arm curled around his stomach. He looks up at Jason through narrowed eyes and quickly turns his head away at the flash of metal. A split second of fear and the staff connects, Tim’s skull strikes the ground.

_Crack._

“Where’s the guy from earlier. The one who tried to bash my head in with a camera. You were itching for a fight before. Where’d that go?”

“I’m…” Tim struggles to get a breath. “I’m not going to fight you.”

“Too bad. I should have kept the helmet on.”

“Jason, you—”

_Crack._

He can’t remember what he was about to say. It had been important. Tim squeezes his eyes shut.

_Crack._

Everything feels too hot. Tim pushes himself to his knees, they tremor under him and he retches blood mixed spit onto the floor. Pain bursts across his back and Tim’s chin hit the floor. He pushes himself back up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His tongue feels heavy -maybe he bit it- and blood drips from his lips.

“ _Stay down, Replacement_.”

He’s kicked down again. _Get up_. He rather not. The tiles are pretty up close. And cold. Tim presses his cheek to the floor and wheezes.

Jason kneels next to him. Jason is alive. Bruce is going to be so happy _._ Tim would have smiled if he could just remember how. Jason grabs his hand and pries open his fist. An ‘R’ falls out.

A trembling hand runs through his hair.

Once.

Twice.

Or a dozen times, who’s keeping count?

Before gripping him by the scalp.

Tim could learn to hate green.

_Crack_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been months and I'm finally back. There are no excuses, I'm just lazy. The first 3 or 4 chapters are going to be the hardest to write but I should have chapter 2 up by Sunday at the latest.
> 
> This chapter doubled in size and I'm just realizing how long this work is going to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a month late and I hated writing this chapter. I also changed the story to present tense and had to go through Chapter 1 before I could post this.

The first thing Tim notices when he opens his eyes are the floor tiles. They aren’t the ones at the Tower, no these are small and square with at least a centimeter of space in-between for the grouting, unlike the close-packed rectangles they have at the Tower. Meaning he isn’t at the Tower.

That is… not good?

The tiles are pleasantly warm under his cheek, he’s been there for a while. There being the floor. Hopefully it’s the floor, otherwise, this is a weirder situation than he thought. It’d suck if he’s stuck to the ceiling or a wall.

Anyway, the tiles are a spotless white and the entire room stinks of bleach. That is important, but mostly it made his head hurt. Tim turns away from the floor, the walls of the room, a bathroom, match the floor, clean tile. From where he lies, he can see a bathtub and an open first aid kit. Various gauzes and suture needles lay out on the floor alongside a few blood-stained clothes. They look fresh enough with the blood not yet finished oxidizing.

Medical tools… _crap_. Tim jerks up. Bad move. The ache in his head spikes, he clutches it between his hands and curls in on himself. That only makes it worse, it runs up his spine and as if someone had pulled a lever, every inch of his body suddenly hurts. He forces his hand away from his head and gingerly checks his abdomen. No stitches or signs of surgery. The relief is worth the pain. He’s seen things and does _not_ want a bomb implanted in his stomach.

He’s also not in his Robin custome, that’s worth noting. Some has changed him into a pair of swearpants and a shirt.      

Tim tries not to be embarrassed and instead focuses his breathing -in and out- and steels himself for what he’s about to do. He wants to stay curled on the floor for a few more months, that isn’t possible right now, but Tim might give it a try later when things settle. As it is the floor of a strange bathroom is not the place to go comatose. Tim has to get up and what a _joy_ that’s going to be. At least he doesn’t have a bomb in his stomach, or a mask stitched to his face or anything like that. There’s always that.

His hands shook and this’s going to hurt. This’s going to hurt so bad. Tim finds himself doing some form of a twisted push-up, he pushes himself up, gets so far, his arms shake, give out and he tries again. And again. And again. And there’s a fine line between determination and stubborn self-destruction. And Tim may have been playing hopscotch on it for a while now. And he can feel his shoulder blades moving under his skin, hear the joints in their sockets. His stomach lurches and Tim really needs to get up now.

He drags himself over to the toilet and vomits bile. Tim gags for a bit before putting the lid down and using it to pull himself up. This sucks, everything about this week sucks. His legs wobble under him and every step resonates in his back. Maybe a short break won’t be so bad when he gets back.

The door opens when he tries the knob, not what he was expecting but why wouldn’t it? Who would put a lock on the outside of a bathroom door anyway?

Light shines from a room at the other end of the hall and an angry voice carries with it. Tim’s heart skips. How could he forget? Honestly, how can anyone forget Jason? Tim blames his head because from the number of bandages around it, it’s either really messed up or someone was overzealous about wrapping heads. And Jason doesn’t seem like the type to waste valuable supplies.

Tim tries his hardest to be quiet. Small, slow steps, controlled breathing, no falling over, the works. It makes for slow going. Reaching the doorway without screwing something up is like a victory. He peeks around the corner and quickly pulls back.

Barring the situation, this could be one of the best days of his life. An alive Jason Todd is the stuff of dreams. Not barring the situation, this could be one of the worst. Worst week, worst day, worst everything. Never meet your heroes because they just might want to kill you.

Jason wants to kill him.

Tim forces himself not to smile. Regardless a grin spreads across his face. Jason’s alive. Alive and yelling at a phone on the other side of the wall. Angrier and rougher than the way Tim remembers him if that’s even possible.

He looks around the wall again and watches Jason pace the kitchen. He wears a t-shirt and pants, looking nothing like he did last night, more normal teenager and less vengeful mercenary. Yet nothing like the Robin Tim used to watch.

Their eyes meet and they both freeze. His eyes really are green, the color makes Tim’s stomach churn and his back ache. Tim grimaces then bolts down the hall. Not the time.

“Fuck.”

The door’s a lot closer than Tim originally thought and he narrowly stops himself from running into it. He flings it open and sees Jason running after him from over his shoulder. Tim slams the door shut behind him and once again stops himself just in time. The small balcony he was standing on ends a few feet away and Tim doesn’t fancy the three-story drop that follows, footsteps thump on the other side of the door, not that he ever has a choice.

Tim jumps over the metal railing and balances on the inch or two of balcony that remains on the other side. He lowers himself down until he’s hanging on only by his hands. The door swings open. Tim lets go.

A metal support beam meets his feet Tim sqeaks and crouches low. Jason leans over the railing above him. Tim waves then drops onto the next beam. When he glances up again, Jason’s gone, boots clatter on the staircase.

Blood pounds in his veins and it better stay there. He hurries his way down a few more beams then takes a deep breath and jumps off. Air rushes around him, after a second of free fall he hits the road and falls to his knees. He gets to his feet and runs along the edge of the building. When he reaches the corner, he glances back. Jason’s at the bottom of the stairs, looking for him. Tim sees the moment Jason finds him; relief so evident on his face that Tim hesitates. Maybe they can talk this out.

“I swear, Replacement, one more step and I put a bullet in your head.”

Or not. Jason’s back to murderous and Tim ducks around the corner. They can save the heart to heat for later. That works too. What would Tim have said anyway? _Sorry you died, big fan by the way? Love what you did with your hair?_ No, he’ll leave the talking to Dick. Tim will—

Click. _Bang!_

Tim stumbles and the skin on his palms peels on the concrete. A numbness runs from his foot up his leg, he ignores it and pushes himself back to his feet, at the second step he falls again. He rolls over to sit, Tim checks both of his legs, the hole in one of his feet catches his attention. He brushes his fingers over it and stares dumbly at the blood.

At the entrance of the alley, Jason stalks towards him brandishing a gun in hand. Panic flares through him and Tim can deal with his foot later. He needs to go now. He struggles to his feet and uses the alley wall to limp along.

Jason doesn’t run. There isn’t a reason to. Where’s he going to go? Nowhere fast. Tim rounds the corner. So, he can’t do fast. Maybe somewhere smart and simple will do, for the first time in a while, Tim’s head is clear. It’s adrenaline, only adrenaline and it’ll do him more harm than good in the long run. But right now, no pain, no problems except the one at hand. Jason’s overconfident now, all Tim has to do is plan and prioritize.

A simple problem-solving game. He can do that.

It’s how he became Robin in the first place.

Just got to lay it out.

Goal: escape from Jason.

Step one: get rid of the blood trail.

Tim’s well aware of the footprints following him, leading Jason to him. They’re going to be the easiest part of this, so easy that all he has to do is pick a plastic bag out of the trash littered around the streets and take off his shirt. Tim shivers, yet this is one of the least weird things he’s had to do. Sticking his foot in a plastic bag and wrapping it in his shirt, no problem, happens every other week. He ties to the shirt securely and gives his foot a shake. It’s waterproof, quiet, _and_ a high risk of infection. It’ll do until he can get somewhere safer.

Step two: hide.

Tim estimates that he has seconds before Jason comes around that corner. Logically he’ll check the area near where the blood ends, but if he’s serious about finding Tim then he’ll check the surrounding areas too, so distance isn’t the solution. His best bet is to get inside.

The first door Tim tries is locked. As is the second and that’s it for back doors. He limps around another corner to buy a bit more time and starts trying the windows.

Locked.

Locked.

Locked.

Fourth time’s the charm. The window slides up and Tim checks behind him once before dragging himself through. He awkwardly falls onto the floor of a bedroom and scrambles to close the window. Locks it too, then drops to the floor.

The hardwood’s clean and cool against the raw skin of his palms. The bedframe isn’t so kind. The wood bears down on down on him as Tim crawls under the bed on his elbows. A tight fit that presses on every bruise on his back. Tim pushes himself back further under the bed and holds his breath.

The window casts light onto the floor, a shadow passes through it. The cursing is muffled through the wall. After a moment Jason’s back, and the window rattles before he’s gone again.

He doesn’t come back.

A couple minutes or an hour, Tim stays under the bed staring at the light, then some more before he drags himself out. He keeps the window in sight and uses the bed to pull himself up. The mattress creaks under him.

Step three… step three… he hadn’t expected to reach step three. It’s a miracle he made it past step one. Tim chews on his lips. Alright then, step three is…

Step three: ...head back to the Tower.

That seems right. His blood had been fresh in the bathroom, and the average person can only be unconscious for a few minutes before entering a coma or sustaining brain damage barring that they hadn’t be drugged, adding that to the fact it’s still dark outside. All evidence points to it only having been at most an hour or two since Jason took him from the Tower. He’s only a bus ride or two away.

Once he gets back and has some space between himself and Jason, Tim can check on the team and contact Bruce. He’d call Kon now to pick him up, but Tim isn’t sure what the situation is back there. If he called and Kon didn’t come…

Tim couldn’t handle that. Not after his parents.

He’d rather risk running into Jason while trying to find a bus than not know whether his best friend is severely hurt or dead. Stuck sitting here unable to help, not again, he’ll find his own way back.

Tim searches the house until he finds a bathroom. He secures the room, closing the door and pulling curtains across windows before sitting down on the edge of the bathtub. The water is cold when he turns it on, Tim doesn’t bother waiting for it to heat up before unwrapping his foot. He rinses the bag off and an alarming amount of blood swirls down the drain. That… that is something he’ll deal with later? He’ll clean the bag and use it to keep his foot as clean as possible, but there isn’t much he can do for his foot itself.

He can barely even look at it. At the same time, he has trouble looking away. The bullet had entered through the bottom of his foot, just under his heel and exited two inches before his toes and— And Tim’s foot looks like something he doesn’t want to be attached to his body. There’s a tear going through his heel where the bullet had grazed him before fully hitting that started out shallow but ended deep enough that he could see part of his heel bone through the torn flesh. He doesn’t even want to get started on the mess he knows must’ve been made of his tendons and bones. If he has a better angle Tim is certain he’ll be able to see the bathtub through the hole. He doesn’t try.

Point being he can’t move his toes and that awful sound his foot makes when he tries sounds a lot like surgery and recovery time and a lot of things Tim doesn’t want to consider. And elevated heartrate is the opposite of what he needs right now.

He turns the water off without washing his foot. If he tries, Tim knows he’ll throw up. The thought of touching it, acknowledging that that’s his foot is sickening. He might not— he’ll be fine. People have healed from worse.

Tim rewraps the bag around his foot and goes to leave the bathroom when he notices the mirror. His reflection’s a wreck to put it delicately nothing he hadn't expected. A few small scabs around his bruised eyes because you really weren’t meant to rip those masks off, bandages around his neck, his nose is swollen but looks like it was in its proper place, Jason’s probably to thank for that. Thanks, Jason. There’s also a bandage on his cheek that he can’t place the injury for but that’s minor. He doesn’t look at his back, Tim doesn’t need to see it just yet and it’s fine as long as he doesn’t touch it. Besides he had to find a bus to catch.

After rooting around in a few of the dressers Tim manages to find a shirt. Several sizes too big and smelling of mothballs but it’s easy to put on and doesn’t irritate his back much. He takes a pair of sneakers out of the closet in the porch, and even laced as tight as he can get them they’re a bit loose.

The streets are empty through the front door window. Where is this place? Tim hasn’t seen anyone besides himself and Jason since he escaped. Maybe that’s a good thing, it’ll only end badly if the police get involved and start asking questions. Questions like what’s Timothy Drake doing beat up in the middle of nowhere instead of in Gotham mourning his mother or visiting his father in the hospital? Or anything that doesn’t involve getting beat up? That seems like suspicious behavior, better bring him in. Followed by, where did he get all those scars? And, did you steal those shoes?

His foot hurt really bad.

It’s been a long week, and yes, he did steal these shoes.

Since Jason is nowhere in sight, Tim opens the door. His shoes clap oddly on the pavement, Tim stops and tucks the laces inside. The rows of buildings on either side of him have ‘For Sale’ signs in front of them, their windows dark and a few broken. Occasionally, he sees movement in them. He doesn’t wait around to meet the locals. Tim keeps to the shadows and checks every alley before entering, braces himself to run at a moment's notice. He’ll probably trip.

The sun is starting to creep up through the buildings, light reflecting on puddles and into Tim’s eyes. The team’s got to be freaking by now. Tim drags his foot behind him, the bag in his shoe sloshes. He hadn’t noticed when but at some point it had torn and the sides of his shoe are a wet red.

Tim staggers into the next alley. It’s empty save for a dumpster and the usual garbage. He lowers himself shakily, curls up beside the dumpster and buries his head in his arms.

 

***

 

The toe of a boot digs into his side and someone whistles. Tim shoots up and expects to see Jason. It’s not Jason. He would’ve preferred Jason.

A man stands over him, close enough that Tim’s pressed to alley wall just to get some space, two more linger further back. The smell of smoke on their clothes makes his nose wrinkle. Tim raises his hands out in front of him. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“I don’t see any trouble ‘round here.” Look harder. A hand’s under his chin and Tim ducks beneath the man’s arm. He stumbles and when he rights himself the other two men have moved to block both exits. The man grabs Tim by the arm, smiling. “Come on, don’t be like that.”

Tim’s shoved back against the wall and a hand grabs the front of his pants. He yelps and punches the side of the man’s face.

The man raises his hand and Tim’s face is wet. He’s not crying, close, but he’s not.  A bullet clatters on the ground by his feet and the sound of a gun still echoes in his ears. The man’s body pitches forward, his head rests on Tim’s shoulder and warmth soaks into the sleeve of his shirt.

Tim stands there. Over the man’s shoulder, the other two men lay on the ground, pools of red spread out around their heads. He pushes the man’s body off. It falls onto the pavement in a heap.

They’re dead.

His hands are fists at his sides.

Jason’s hands are white-knuckled on his shoulders. “Did they touch you?”

“You killed them.”

“ _Did they fucking touch you._ ”

“No. I mean yes but—” There’s blood in Tim’s mouth and it isn’t his. “You killed them.”

“They deserved it. _Christ, kid._ I lose you for _one_ second and you go wandering the streets looking like— like a—” Jason doesn’t finish only growls and lets go of Tim in favor of pacing.

Tim sags against the wall and slowly slides towards the ground. Jason curses, grabs him under his armpits, he carries him over and sits him on the dumpster. He then kneels in front of Tim and started undoing the laces of his shoe. Tim kicks him with his other foot. “Don’t touch me.”

“Shut up and sit still.” Jason pulls his shoe off and unwraps the bag. “Shit, I got you at a bad angle.”

“There’s a good angle?”

“Fuck. Off.”

“I tried too but you shot me.”

“And I’ll do it again if you don’t shut up.”

Tim sighs, not even his back can deter him from leaning against the wall. Sweat stings the scrapes on his palms and makes the air harsher, in his chest, his heart beats quick enough to be painful. Tim tucks his hands under his shirt and closes his eyes.

It’s been a long week. He can’t deal with this, any of this.

It’s easier to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is shorter, just as hated and will be out soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I procrastinated.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Tim flinches against a sharp hand against his cheek. Jason’s face is glaring down at him. “Eyes open.”

Tim must’ve had a look to him because Jason taps him on the cheek again and adds, “and keep your mouth shut.”

He leaves his gloves on the dumpster and kneels down again. Tim resists the urge to pull his foot out from Jason’s hands, just bites his tongue and clenches his hands, even when Jason digs his fingernails in and picks something out of the wound. Again. And again.

_And again._

Jason has a hand around his ankle before Tim can take his foot away. There’s a brick pattern being embedded into Tim’s back, right over his bruises and cuts, and at least thirty bricks on the wall directly across from him. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.

“Hold still,” Jason says, then he’s yanks something out of Tim’s foot. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. The moment he releases his foot Tim pulls it away. Jason stands, he opens a red hand over the dumpster, several bloody rocks and a piece of glass clatter onto the metal.

“Give me your shirt.” Jason doesn’t give him a moment – if he had Tim would’ve probably kicked him – then he’s grabbing the hem of Tim’s shirt and lifting it. He tugs on it but doesn’t take it off. Why not is beyond Tim. “Just give it to me.”

Oh, that’s why. Tim’s hands are clenched tightly in the fabric, white-knuckled even as Jason lets go of the shirt in favor of prying them off. Jason’s fingers slip bloodily against Tim’s, every time he manages to get a finger free Tim digs it in again before he can move to the next. He doesn’t mean to. Tim wants to let go, have this over quicker. He can’t. It’s like his hands aren’t his. Jason bends one finger back far enough that for a moment Tim thinks he’s going to break it. He bends it back a bit farther then lets it go. “Fine.”

All of a sudden Tim’s nose is pressed into Jason’s shoulder. And that’s worse. Being crowded back into a wall while hands push between him and the bricks, fingers under his shirt. Tim can’t breathe. Isn’t. Doesn’t. Not until Jason’s stepping back. He pulls Tim forward a bit with him and the world goes dark for a second as the shirt goes over Tim’s head, down his arms and stops at his hands still wrapped in the fabric.

“I’m not above breaking your fingers, Replacement,” Jason says. Tim waits. Jason’s hands move. Tim shifts back flush to the wall again. Jason shrugs out of his jacket and Tim can only flatten himself so much before it’s being draped over him, the collar over his nose and the sleeves awkwardly at his sides. It’s warm.

Tim loosens his fingers the littlest bit. Jason gives him a look, taking the shirt from his hands. Then he reaches for Tim’s foot.

Nope.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Jason catches Tim by the leg before he can move. “I’m not going to cut it off.”

Tim’s too weak to stop him from pulling his leg back over the side of the dumpster. Tim watches Jason pull out a knife, he cuts the shirt open, closes and pockets the knife, and folds the shirt lengthwise three times. It’s doesn’t help Tim’s heart or nerves when Jason ducks down and the top of his head is all that he can see.

Counting bricks does nothing to stop Tim from crying out when Jason’s does God knows what to his foot. Crushing his bones or stabbing him from the feel of it. “ _Ow, stop._ What are you doing?”

“I’m putting pressure on it,” Jason says before ‘putting pressure on it’ again.

“Well don’t.” Tim bites into the inside of his cheek and strains against Jason’s grip. _“Stop it.”_

“Can you go back to being quiet?”

“You’re making it worse.” He is. It didn’t hurt nearly as much before; whatever Jason is trying to do is making it worse. Tim braces his other foot on Jason’s shoulder and pulls. A lot worse and he. Won’t. Let. Go.

“I guess not.”

Jason’s grip tightens the slightest bit. And that’s it, Tim can’t take it, the heel of his other foot connects awkwardly with Jason’s nose and Tim’s off the dumpster before Jason can curse.  
Tim’s body refuses to catch him and he hits the ground, winded and gasping.

His foot’s out of Jason’s grip, Tim’s – well technically _not_ his – shirt is wrapped around it, one end hanging off limply. Past it, Jason’s wiping a trail of blood from under his nose. Angry. And getting up.

And you never know just how large a person is until they’re pissed off and towering over you. Or how small you feel in their shadow. Tim wants to throw up again. He can’t even drag himself away and his head’s spinning and pounding from the fall.

“Don’t.” It sounds weak to Tim’s own ears.

“I’m trying to help you,” is what Jason says, but Tim’s used to people not saying what they mean. People who were a lot better at hiding their emotions than Jason is, people Tim’s not going to think about right now because Jason looks like he’s about to take his teeth out.

“Then let me go.”

“Where would you go? You can’t even fucking walk,” Jason says as he crouches down. He reaches out, Tim scooches back and makes a grab for a nearby beer bottle. And Jason’s knee is on his chest like he’s forgotten beating Tim with a staff earlier tonight. Like he isn’t heavy enough to be crushing Tim’s lungs, making it harder to breathe than it already is. “Kid. _Hey. Stop moving_.”

“Get off of me.” Out of his reach, the bottle falls over when Tim’s fingers knock into it.

“I’m trying to stop the bleeding.” Jason catches his wrist and pins it down against his chest next to his knee. Tim hates this.

“I’ll do it myself.” Tim’s nails leave long pink welts along Jason’s arm. He doesn’t even flinch.

“No, you won’t,” Jason says. “You’re going to hurt yourself, that’s what you’re going to do.”

“I—"

Jason’s hand clamps over his mouth. Tim’s eyes burn and he looks away. In the few hours they’ve known each other Tim’s seen that look Jason has now before, it makes his body go still. Minus the shaking. He couldn’t stop shaking if he tried. Jason closes his eyes and sighs. “I’ll just wrap it.”

The hand comes off, Jason holds Tim’s wrist for a few seconds longer then lets it go too. He gets off Tim slowly, Tim rubs the spot where his knee was. Crossing his arms over his chest is his only source of warmth as Jason fixes and lightly ties the shirt around his foot.

And that’s it. He moves away from Tim.

Jason picks up his jacket off the ground where it’d fallen and throws his it at Tim. “Put it on.”

Tim puts it on.

Then Jason gets his gloves off the dumpster.

“Alright.” And that’s not it. Hands are on Tim again, under his knees and back as he’s lifted. “Up we go.”

Tim closes his eyes and lets himself be carried. It’s disturbingly relaxing, even the irregularity in Jason’s gait when he steps over the bodies. And they just walk for a while, Jason stops and says a few words to someone Tim doesn’t process, then more walking. Enough that Tim’s almost gone when the sound of boots on pavement and gravel changes to boots on metal. The creak of a door opening and closing again behind them.

Sight isn’t needed to know where he is, the bleach smell is the same that was killing his head earlier. All that effort and he’s back where he started.

Sight isn’t close to being one of the most useful senses. All it does is tell Tim that the mat next to the tub he’s being set on is a weird shade of green and that he was right about where this is.

The mat’s fuzzy on the backs of Tim’s feet, he immediately shifts so his weight is off his foot and rests his head on the porcelain of the tub. The jacket is pulled off and tossed near Jason’s gloves that are laying on the floor just within his line of sight.

The faucet squeaks as it’s turned on. Yellow water with dark flakes swirls down the drain, the water surges and cuts out a few times before it starts running clear. Clearer. A towel is dropped onto the floor next to him and Jason sits on the edge of the tub near the faucet.

“Hands.”

Tim lifts his hands up and lets Jason push them under the water. It stings, Tim winces as Jason scrubs at the palms of his hands, rubbing off the scabs and street grim. He continues up Tim’s arms and stops at his elbows, he puts the cloth he was using under the water, rings it out then sets it down.

“Close your eyes.”

Jason takes the showerhead off its rack, pushes down the little knob on top of the faucet, and Tim barely has time to close his eyes before his head’s being pushed under the spray. Fingers run through Tim’s hair, brushing over scabbing cuts and working out tangles.

It lasts only a few seconds shy of two minutes – Tim counts – before it’s over.

The towel used to dry his hair does tear at the scabs. Between that and the reopened scraps on his palms, it’s less than clean when Jason’s done with it.

Next is his foot.

Tim’s awkwardly sat on the side of the tub with his pantlegs rolled up to his knees. There’s no scrubbing involved at least. Jason unties the shirt and holds Tim’s foot under the faucet until Tim can barely keep himself from falling onto the floor, Jason then pats Tim’s foot dry with the towel and helps him settle back onto the mat.

And it’s fine, a bit cold, but fine. Until it’s not. Jason’s searching the floor for something, holding a curved needle held between his fingers. His hand closes around a spool of metallic blue thread and he turns back to Tim.

Fear is not the word.

“You’re not giving me stitches.” Tim’s – regretfully – seen his foot. He does not want stitches. Or it being touched any more than it already has.

Jason’s washing his hands and sanitizing the needle. “You need stitches.”

“There’s no—” Jason cuts him off.

“One more word and I’m gagging you.”

Tim squeezes his eyes closed. This is happening one way or another. He wishes it wouldn’t. It won’t be the first time, Tim’s never enjoyed it. Who would? But there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Just wait.

And wait.

And wait…

He cracks on eye open.

Jason’s sitting there looking at his foot with a frown. Tim’s gotten enough injuries in his life to know frowning is never a good thing, but right now, when Jason’s putting the needle away and taking out bandages instead, it’s a relief. It feels like being told that you’re not about to have a tiny sharp piece of metal shoved through your skin multiple times without anesthetic. Aka, the best feeling in the world.

Jason catches his eyes while wrapping his foot and scowls. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You just did. And you’ve got a stupid look on your face.”

Bandages are freshly wrapped around Tim’s hands. The wet one is removed from his neck and Jason’s fingers trace the row of stitches across his throat, checking each stitch before covering them again with a dry one.

Jason leaves the room and returns with a tacky floral print blanket that’s softer than it looked around Tim’s shoulders. It’s clean and warm, Tim feels gross underneath it.

Tim watches Jason gather all the scattered medical supplies off the floor and shove them into the first aid kit. He tucks the kit under his arm with his jacket. He pauses in the doorway and says, “try not to move around too much. Or at all.” Then he’s gone out the door.

It’s just Tim and some stupidly comfortable blanket.

It’s half pettiness and half exhaustion that has Tim laying down the moment he hears a door closing down the hall. He tucks his head under the blanket and just breathes.

 

***

 

Jason comes back a while later, Tim almost doesn’t notice and doesn’t protest when Jason picks him up again.

The sun’s annoyingly bright through Tim’s eyelids before he’s being shoved into the backseat of a car that Tim knows wasn’t there before. Jason pushes him up in the seat, buckles and pulls the seat belt out until the child lock engages. It snaps back against Tim’s chest.

Tim gives him the best glare he can muster.

Jason returns it. He ducks out of the car and pauses with his hand on the door. “Just be glad I’m not putting you in the trunk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my least favorite chapter so far based on the quality of writing.
> 
> I've found that a big problem for me when writing chapters 2-6 is that I have to write from the POV of a character with an altered mental state, one caused not only from emotional but also physical trauma. It's difficult and that's why I want to get those chapters done so I can edit and rewrite the hell out of them.  
> Chapters 3-6 are also probably the shortest chapters in this.
> 
> New goal is to have Chapter 6 out by Tuesday  
> On that note Chapter 4 may or may not be posted tomorrow


End file.
